


Shangri-La

by thegreybeyond



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreybeyond/pseuds/thegreybeyond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she sees him, he is leaning against the brick wall outside Tesco, paper in one hand, cigarette in the other.</p>
<p>A familiar stranger walks into Petunia Dursley's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shangri-La

**Author's Note:**

> For Carole, who introduced me to one of my favourite Remus fics :)
> 
> Thank you, Jess/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor, for being a super quick and super fab beta.
> 
> The title is taken from Shangri-La by The Kinks, which served as inspiration for an earlier version of the fic. The original drabbles were written for the Fourth TTB Brawl and kolm's Welcome Home Comment Ficathon on Livejournal.
> 
> Originally posted at Mugglenet Fanfiction. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy :)

It takes Petunia Dursley a while to become perfect. She learns to make a home for her husband and child, using her mother’s old Victorian almanacs for the best method to remove a grass stain, how to make homemade rose water to impress the neighbours, or all the different ways in which to use baking soda as a cleaning agent.   
  
During the day, she learns the best way to smile, to trick her eyes into mimicking her lips. It’s something she’s never been quite good at, despite seven consecutive Septembers of trying. Her neighbours are all so frightfully lovely and attentive, always there whenever she needs a cup of sugar, and even when she doesn’t. Some days, she takes the time to watch the soaps on television and scoffs at the women who always seem so discontent with their lot. She’s not like them. It comforts her to say this aloud: _I’m not like them. I’m not like them at all._  
  
At night, she lies with Vernon, exhausted, and waiting for the tears of frustration to stop falling as his snores rattle the entire room. In the morning, though, she forgets how tired she is, forgets why. There is no need to dwell on such things when she is lucky enough to have such a normal, accomplished husband and a beautiful son! She doesn’t think about the other boy with green eyes who lives under the stairs.  
  
She doesn’t think about the family he once belonged to, the family she once belonged to. Petunia has made a new self and a new family. She doesn’t think about why the tears come, or it will bring a memory of older, forgotten tears that are made of brilliant red hair, daisies and mean little boys who belong in a swamp.  
  
The first time she sees him, he is leaning against the brick wall outside Tesco, paper in one hand, cigarette in the other. His clothes are tattered and old, the sleeves of his corduroy blazer frayed, and his trousers far too short. She feels a familiar, unsettling pang of vague recognition. But how could she know someone like _that_. Petunia never likes to look at _those_ people for too long--the tatty misfits, the good-for-nothing bludgers, as Vernon likes to call them. She doesn’t understand why they can’t find a respectable job and clean themselves up. It can’t be that hard, surely.  
  
She never likes to look at those who are out of place, preferring to swerve around them as if they were never there, as if they don’t exist.   
  
Because they don’t exist if she pretends hard enough.  
  
He doesn’t look up from his paper as she passes, but when she begins to load the shopping into her car she feels him watching her. She can barely see him across the carpark. Other cars drift between them with a low thrum and the sharp stench of exhaust. He’s not even looking in her direction. She blushes, feeling stupid, and then shakes her head. She is angry at the blush, she is angry at the thought of a stranger making her feel this way. A stranger like that, of all people. She has spent so much time learning how to control her face and her thoughts, and suddenly it’s flown out the door from a cigarette-wielding, scruffy layabout. She continues loading the shopping into her car boot.  
  
The unsettling sensation of being watched returns as she buckles Dudley into his carseat. Petunia, ignoring Harry’s cries as Dudley hits him with a can of baked beans, turns around. The man is gone. Only an abandoned cigarette sending plumes of smoke spiralling up from the pavement leaves any trace of his existence.  
  
  
  
The second time she sees him she is at the park with Dudley and the other boy. Dudley has fallen from the monkey bars, and she is kissing his knee better while he wails. She’s thinking about the letter she’ll be writing to the local council about removing such a dangerous piece of playing equipment when she feels it. That same feeling from the carpark. That same awkward, watchful sense that smells like a train station and warms like tears on cheeks and reminds her of rotting flowers. She glances up at the bench far off on the other side of the playground. He is there, newspaper in hand, staring up at the sky as if he’s been there all along. Maybe he has. Maybe one of the other children running about the park belongs to him, just like Dudley belongs to her. Maybe he will be kissing a knee and stroking a frazzled forehead in an hour, too.  
  
Maybe she should stop thinking about a stranger who she may or may not know.  
  
Petunia sits on another bench, keeping an eye on Dudley. Every so often she looks over at the man. His suit is a little cleaner today, his shirt seems crisper and his socks match. He has polished his shoes, which is always an admirable trait. No one wants unpolished shoes sitting on their front step for all the neighbours to see. She shakes her head at that thought, because why would his shoes be on her front step at all?  
  
Sometimes she catches him looking at the playground, and it’s then that she remembers Harry is here, too. His eyes follow that messy black hair, that hideous scar, and she’s sure he looks over at her once or twice because his head whips back up to stare at the sky when she glances over at him. Her cheeks are flushed in the crisp, autumn air. Everything is so clear.   
  
And the memories rush forward at her as if she’s sitting in an audience and watching them play out on stage before her. There is a boy with dark, lank hair and there is a girl who is brilliant, gold and glowing. They laugh, but she is all alone on the bench.   
  
She has come here with Dudley so many times before, but something new and cold has settled in her stomach today. She doesn’t know why.   
  
It starts with another cry. Dudley is sitting on top of the monkey bars, and Harry is standing beneath them, a piece of bark in his hand and a small smile on his face.   
  
“What have you done, you nasty boy?” she yells, then catches herself. No one else seems to hear her--the squeals and cries of children continue on as if she had never even spoken. But she looks up all the same, and she turns her head towards the bench. He is gone.  
  
He is gone.  
  
Eventually, she coaxes Dudley down with promises of ice cream for dinner and a brand new video game. When he is huddled against her side on the bench she turns back to Harry. A strange and sore lump is rising in her throat.  
  
“How dare you, you naughty boy! You are a naughty boy! You are a naughty little freak! Why won’t you ever do as you’re told! Why must you be so like… so like your…”  
  
She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Harry stares back at her, eyes wide and so, so green. There is a choking noise rattling through her chest.  
  
“I’m not a freak,” says Harry, firmly, folding his arms and refusing to break eye contact with her.  
  
“Don’t you dare move!” she snaps, leaping up from the bench as the heat behind her eyes becomes too much to bear. She hides behind a tree, gasping and gasping, until she hears Dudley wailing for her. On the way home, she stops at the corner shop and buys a packet of cigarettes, which she promptly throws in the bin outside. She has not smoked since Dudley was born, and she’s not about to start again. But she’s tired, and her sister is dead.   
  
It is the last time she takes Harry to the park.  
  
It is the last time she sits on that bench.  
  
  
She’s in the garden one evening, pretending to clip her roses while listening to Mr and Mrs Rimple arguing over the fence. The air is sharp, and every time she breathes in it’s like something sticks in her throat. She thinks it’s delicious, proof of her rebelliousness against what she should be doing, which is preparing Dudley’s supper and getting the house tidy before Vernon arrives home from work. Instead, she’s listening to her perfect neighbours and their perfectly imperfect argument.  
  
Everything is so beautiful.  
  
It’s not until she glances up the street to make sure Vernon isn’t already on his way home that she sees him. He’s so, so familiar. She still can’t quite put her finger on where she’s seen him before, but he’s ever so scruffy and his drab brown suit looks like it could do with patching at the knees and elbows and a damn good wash (surely he does not live around _here,_ this is a respectable neighbourhood.)  
  
And then she realises. It’s him. She has not seen him for over a year, but that slightly sick feeling of recognition comes rushing back. She’s nearly forgotten him, except in those unsatisfying moments at night when Vernon is asleep beside her and her thighs are still tingling, warm, not quite finished.   
  
He leans on a fence across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching her. He catches her eye, and she scowls, turning away slightly so as not to encourage conversation. What would the neighbours think? Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug off the fence, stub out his dirty cigarette with his shoe (no longer polished, no longer acceptable) and walk across the road towards her.  
  
“Good evening.” His voice is thick and deep, and Petunia’s lips twitch as that vague familiarity sparks within her again. That voice, _his voice_ … it reminds her of trains and steam and London. It reminds her of something lost. Petunia’s eyes narrow as she looks at him properly. He isn’t nearly as dirty as she had first thought, just shabby. And he is still young, and he is still good looking once she gets past the general tatty appearance.   
  
“I hope you’re not going to leave that on the street.”  
  
He turns back and glances at the offending cigarette. She’s almost sure he smiles.  
  
“Sorry, that was careless.”   
  
“Look, my husband will be home any minute, and the boys are inside, so I would appreciate it if you just left me alone-”  
  
“Nice day out,” he says, interrupting. He really smiles this time and no matter how hard she tries, she cannot stop the faint flush blooming across her cheeks. He seems harmless, charming even. Petunia nods and offers a small smile. “Your sons should be outside playing.”  
  
She opens her mouth to correct his assumption but notices that his attention is elsewhere. She turns in the direction of his gaze and huffs with irritation as she sees Harry’s small face peeking out at them from behind the net curtains.  
  
“He’s not mine,” she tells him. “I’m looking after him for… a friend. Not even a friend, really.”  
  
“I see,” he says, smiling faintly. The man looks at her once more, and she feels a sudden urge to touch his face. He’s so close. She takes a deep breath and, this time, it feels like more than crisp, cold air sticks to her throat. He’s so, so here and Vernon is not. It’s almost painful. Lost words trip along her tongue, pushing against her lips, trying to escape.  
  
“He’s a frightful child,” she continues, trying to cover her strange impulses. “No manners! I didn’t even offer to look after him… well, my friend who isn’t really a friend just dumped him on us and…” She’s not sure how to finish that sentence, never has been. Her hand flies to her mouth, disgusted at her outburst to this complete, familiar stranger with kind eyes and warm smile.  
  
But his smile seems to fade in the dusky light.   
  
“You’re nothing like her at all.”   
  
Petunia’s forehead creases at the sad disappointment of his tone. A cold sense of resentment slips from her throat and down, down, down to her stomach. He glances over her shoulder at the window one last time before turning away.  
  
“Wait!” she calls after him. “Like who?”  
  
He stops walking, his hand resting slightly on the Rimple’s fence.   
  
“Lily.”  
  
Petunia watches in silence until he rounds the corner and disappears from view. Her heart thud-thud-thuds as the vague recognition sinks into a deep pit of tar between her legs.  
  
It’s not until a slight breeze catches her flushed cheeks off guard that she realises she is crying. She digs around her apron pocket and pulls out a white lace handkerchief and hastily wipes away the tears, even though they won’t stop. The neighbours mustn’t see.  
  
She dabs at her eyes, wishing to claw away the thoughts of red hair and daisies and whispers in the night between two little girls. Then, when she finally straightens her back and halts the tears with a determined sniff, she pockets the damp handkerchief so that she doesn’t have to look at it for a moment longer.  
  
The Rimples are still arguing, the roses are clipped with precision. Vernon won’t be home for another half an hour and Dudley has a packet of biscuits to keep him happy until suppertime.   
  
Everything is so beautifully perfect.   
  
As it should be.


End file.
